


my own devices

by ilgaksu



Series: christmas '15 [1]
Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Agender Kageyama, I'm stopping now, Non-binary Akaashi, THE FRIENDSHIP, and they stick together, owls & crows are 2 birds of a feather
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-13
Updated: 2015-12-13
Packaged: 2018-05-06 12:30:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,304
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5417162
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ilgaksu/pseuds/ilgaksu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>All of this is familiar.</p>
            </blockquote>





	my own devices

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kastron (decidueye)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/decidueye/gifts).



Keiji watches the china of Kageyama Tobio's fingertips crack around the lip of the water bottle, sees the glaze of concentration and the itch under his skin like a distress flare, and thinks: you're a knife, and you don't know it.

You're a knife, and you don't know it, you don't know how to hold yourself or when to put the blade away; are you actually surprised when you cut yourself?

Keiji knows what it is to bleed; they filed themselves down on a whetstone to turn their body into something more than itself, whittled themselves down to pure potential, them and the game and the endless chittering of their own mind (and somewhere, in the midst of all of that, silence). Anyone can make an idea larger than the sum of its parts, but to take your own self-concept and carve the rawness of it into ivory, that’s -

That’s something else. That’s not easy. That’s catching a star, shifting and nebulous, in your hands to name.

“You’re doing it wrong,” Keiji says, keeps their voice low, keeps their voice even. They have spent too long learning the art of de-escalation to snap out of it now. On cue, Kageyama whips around, eyes large and hungry and angry. The crabapple pucker-sulk of his cheeks is familiar and Keiji almost smiles.

“Let me show you,” they offer. Keiji weighs their words carefully. _Let me_ allows refusal. _Let me_ allows for denial. _Let me_ allows the choice of saying no without making it sound like a luxury. They stare at  each other for a long, milk-slow moment; Kageyama’s pride struggling against the constant burn to get better, get more. Kageyama Tobio is in a process of becoming, and Keiji can see it, and Keiji will not take the ball out of Kageyama’s hands until he offers it up.

They wait. And Kageyama Tobio nods.

*

They once held Bokuto’s broken finger straight for the splint. In the slow implosion of Sunday afternoons, watching Bokuto nap next to them in a makeshift nest of blankets, Keiji learnt the human capacity for love is transcendent, mythologising, boundless as the capacity for frustration. They learnt that all hurts stay in the blood; that sex is not an exorcist; that the two of them are young and frail and capable of anything. The tug of Bokuto’s mouth twists in Keiji’s heartstrings; at first, when Bokuto turned up the radio in the minibus on the way to tournaments, till the metal shivered with the beat, Keiji bought headphones. Now, Keiji wears the headphones, but doesn’t switch on their music. It’s like one side of a long-established trench war listening for when their supposed enemy sings _Silent Night._

The point is this: Keiji is used to watching fragile people locking their spines, carving out their hearts on the way to the finishing line. Keiji knows what it is to be afraid to feel. Keiji knows that cancelling out emotions is harder than blocking sound; the latter has next-day delivery.

So all of this is familiar and Keiji almost smiles.   

*

Fast forward, and -

“He’s such a dumbass,” Kageyama complains. They’re sat in Kageyama’s house, under the kotatsu, eating peach ice cream. There’s a contradiction in here somewhere, Keiji knows, but takes another spoonful. Kageyama’s mother clattered out some time ago, looking so shyly delighted at the two of them, and Keiji wonders how many friends Kageyama has brought home before. If they’re the first. That pangs, sudden and startling, in Keiji’s chest. They swallow peach ice cream around the lump in their throat.

Keiji thinks of Hinata, bright-eyed, the bird-like tilt of his head and the freckled slope of his shoulders, licking barbeque sauce off his hands and chattering to Bokuto. How Bokuto had reacted, bragging and thrilled, to Hinata’s hero-worship; how on the bus home Bokuto had tapped idly on the screen, Hinata’s number glowing and earnest in his new contacts, a little wary, a little stunned.  Keiji thinks of how Kageyama’s eyes soften even as his mouth spits _dumbass_ , how the spite is residual, an afterthought, remnants of a trench war tramped awry and pointless. He’s just holding the line. Everyone’s just holding the line.  

Keiji thinks of Bokuto; of them three weeks into meeting Bokuto, and how they kept thinking _I don’t get it,_ confused by Bokuto’s earnest, unpractised flirting, how someone would hold their palms out and bare their throat so easily. _I don’t get it, he’s a dumbass;_ everyone’s just holding the line.

“Why are you laughing?” Kageyama says, and Keiji realises they are. _You sound like me_ sounds too narcisstic. _You’ll learn_ sounds too patronising, and in Kageyama’s case, might not be accurate. _It’ll be okay_ sounds too out-of-context, even though it’s exactly what Keiji feels in this moment.

They ruffle Kageyama’s hair instead, and Kageyama wrinkles his nose but allows it.

“I was thinking about Bokuto,” Keiji says instead. It’s close to the truth. “Do you want me to paint your nails?”

Kageyama holds out his hand.

*

A not entirely relevant, but anecdotally interesting side point to this narrative is that in Kageyama’s next round of exams, his Chemistry score drastically improves. The rest of Karasuno look surprised.

A not entirely relevant, but anecdotally interesting side point is this narrative is that the next time Keiji is stood at a street-stall after practice, they order pork curry. The rest of Fukurodani look surprised.

A not entirely relevant, but anecdotally interesting side point is that Kageyama and Keiji are neither of them surprised.

*

Kageyama’s nails are black with gold sparkles over them; when it hits the right light, it glints orange like the last gasp of sunset. Keiji is wearing a sweatshirt that is dark navy and it fits almost exactly perfectly. They’re the same height. That’s what Kageyama said earlier, when he saw Keiji shiver once, abrupt, in the middle of Shinjuku.

“We’re the same height,” Kageyama had said, pulling the sweatshirt over his head and holding it out hesitantly. A couple of girls had giggled, and Kageyama’s face had tightened, and he’d still held it out, stubborn as God. Keiji thinks of Bokuto, stood in the corridor in between Japanese Lit and History, _go out with me, Akaashi_ ; a couple of girls had giggled, and Bokuto’s face had tightened, and he’d kept looking at Keiji, holding his breath.

Both times, Keiji said yes. The sweatshirt smells like the baby shampoo Hinata uses.

“Nice,” Keiji says, pointing the charm on Kageyama’s phone, now visible and dangling as he checks the directions to the karaoke and frowns. “Hinata get you that?”

“He’s still a dumbass,” Kageyama snaps, muscle memory, instinct. “At least my boyfriend didn’t _burn his spiking hand_ trying to make me chocolate.”

“Yeah,” Keiji says. _I’m sorry for being selfish,_ Bokuto had said, which made no sense. _We’re selfish people,_ Keiji had replied, which made a lot more.  

“Sorry,” Kageyama says, after a moment. The word sounds tenuous and fragile with underuse. “It’s not a competition.”

Keiji breathes it in: the cold, the late-night lights, Kageyama and his twisted mouth.

Keiji smiles and Kageyama relaxes.  

“I need change for the konbini,” they say, “Can I borrow some?” and waits for Kageyama to hold out his hand. They’ll say something about how the nail polish suits him, and Kageyama will flush and mutter angrily under his breath, and Keiji will make sure to get something hot to drink because Kageyama forgot his gloves and won’t borrow Keiji’s, not even one. Keiji can picture it all in their mind, clear and crisp, because all of this is familiar.

Keiji’s still smiling, they find. They’re a little surprised, but not hugely. They watch Kageyama digging through his backpack with what they realise is affection. _He’s such a dumbass; I don’t get it._ They wait.

They stop holding the line.

 


End file.
